by Peter David
Burkitt continued to drink and talk for another hour. The conversation wasn’t really all that different than when Gragg had been in the room; now, though, there was no pretense that he was addressing anyone else. Finally, the drink overwhelming him, he slumped forward at his desk and fell into a deep sleep.
He remained that way for less than an hour.
And then he woke up screaming.
17
MARKANIA
SMYT HAD BEEN PLANNING to surprise Ebozay when he returned to his private quarters. She lay draped across the bed in a fairly scandalous outfit, the type designed to make sure that he didn’t think about such things as her motivations or where she’d come from or Gateways at all. They are so easy to manipulate, she had thought with some degree of satisfaction. But when Ebozay had entered, she had immediately been able to tell that something was wrong . . . something was very, very wrong, in fact. He was barely looking at her; indeed, he was looking through her. “Ebozay?” She said his name tentatively.
He sat on the edge of the bed, but didn’t appear to be registering her presence. “Ebozay,” she repeated, this time more intently. “What’s happened?”
“The meeting . . .”
“Yes, yes. You had a meeting with Shelby and her people. I know that. Why do you look so concerned? What could she possibly have said that—?”
He looked at her, haunted. “Captain Calhoun has lost his mind.”
“What? Calhoun? But he’s the captain of another vessel, isn’t he?”
“Yes. The Excalibur. But . . . but he has . . .”
“But he has what?” Smyt did not always have a great deal of patience when dealing with less-than-sophisticated beings, and she was having no more patience now than usual. “Did you meet with him instead of Shelby?”
“No, we met with Shelby. But . . . she related the details of a meeting Calhoun had on Aeron . . . things he said to them . . .”
She felt relieved. “Who cares what the captain of another ship said to your enemies? It cannot possibly have any relevance to—”
“He’s going to destroy Sinqay.”
Smyt blinked in confusion, not quite able to grasp what he was saying. “Destroy . . . Sinqay? What are you talking about?”
“Shelby . . . Shelby said that he’d always been a bit unstable . . . but—”
“Then she’s lying to you,” Smyt said flatly. “Starfleet would never put an unstable individual in charge of—”
“She said he didn’t start out that way,” and he turned, his gaze seeking hers, searching for some commiseration in his agitated state, “but became more and more out of control since she ceased being his first officer. He now seems to feel that he can do anything. And he said he was ready to destroy Sinqay because the Aerons and we cannot share it.”
“Sounds to me as if he’s treating you like children.”
“That appears to be his goal, yes.”
“Well, you just won’t tolerate it, that’s all. You just won’t—”
He grabbed her hand so forcefully that he might have broken it had he gripped it any tighter. “We cannot stop him! How can you not see that? We cannot stop this madman! The only one who possibly can is Shelby, and she is reluctant to go up against him. She says she doesn’t agree with his actions, but she doesn’t want to challenge his autonomy. I think she’s a bit afraid of him.”
“Please . . . Ebozay . . . you’re hurting my hand,” she said through gritted teeth.
Without even thinking about it, he released her. “How can this be happening? How can this be spiralling out of control? Shelby said . . .”
“What did she say?”
He looked at her with vast concern in his eyes. “Well . . . she said that she would be on our side, and that she would be willing to represent our interest in a peace process. That we would have to make concessions, and even give over those who killed the imperial family . . . but if we did that, she could—”
Smyt began to laugh.
Racked with tension, Ebozay saw nothing worth laughing over. “What is so funny?” he demanded.
“Don’t you see?” She shook her head in obvious sorrow. “She is attempting to play the two of you against each other. You and the Aerons. She and Calhoun must be working together, conspiring. She is not the least bit afraid of him. She is painting him as some sort of a wild man, uncontrollable, to be feared by all. She figures that you and the Aerons will see Calhoun as a common foe, and will want to unite against him in fear. Then she, the moderating influence, attempts to broker a peace settlement between you and your enemies. It could not be more obvious.”
“We do not know that for certain.”
“Yes, we do, if you would not let yourself be intimidated—”
“I am not intimidated!” he said heatedly.
“Yes, you are.” She leaned back on the bed and sighed in a most disappointed fashion. “I thought more of you than this, Ebozay. All your talk, all your boasting. And you did perfectly well when your opponents were three tired, frightened pacifists who were willing to cede power to you rather than cause a fuss. But now you’re faced with the first true challenge to your leadership—”
“This is more than a challenge. Don’t you understand that?” he said urgently.
“I understand that the stink of fear is rolling off y—”
And then she let out a yelp as Ebozay’s hand lashed out. He snagged the hair on the back of her head and yanked, snapping her skull back. “This isn’t about fear,” he snarled right in her face as she gasped. “This is about Sinqay! This is about an unpredictable Starfleet officer embroiled in an incendiary situation! You may very well be right in everything you say! But I can’t afford to be wrong! Because if I am, I will go down in history as the person who lost Sinqay for all time!”
She did not appear the least bit sympathetic to his distress. Her breath coming in short gasps, she managed to give a snicker of contempt. “So brave . . . so brave against pacifists . . . and women . . . have you forgotten what I did to you before? What I can do to you again? Release me, Ebozay . . . or you shall pay for it dearly.”
With a disgusted grunt he let go of her. She turned her head this way and that, relaxing the neck muscles, and then smoothing her hair back into place. “That was very impetuous, and very foolish of you.”
“Traits I can ill afford when discussing the fate of Sinqay.”
“And you have no wish to go down in your history as the one who lost you your precious Sinqay.”
He stared at her as if she were daft. “Of course not! Why would I possibly want to be remembered in such a way?”
“Because at least you will be remembered. Better to be a spectacular failure than a merely modest success.”
Ebozay shook his head, obviously stunned. “That you could believe such things . . . that you could have such little regard for—”
She took one of his hands in both of hers. “They’re bluffing. I assure you.”
“My comrades are not so well-assured,” Ebozay said woefully. “They share my doubts. Even if you sway me to your way of thinking . . . they will not go so easily. You did not see Captain Shelby. She looked fearful, truly fearful, of what is to come. Perhaps it was great acting. Perhaps not.”
“You have to decide,” she told him firmly. “You have to decide whether or not you’re going to let yourself be bullied in this situation . . . and then act accordingly. I cannot do that for you. All I can help you do is obtain the revenge you so greatly desire.”
“What point in defeating the Aerons . . . if that which spurred our enmity all these years is gone for good?”
“You’ll find another enmity,” she said. “I have confidence in you.”
The amusement in her eyes, the tone in her voice, was too much for him. He pushed away from her, stood, and drew himself to his full height, squaring his shoulders very proudly and a touch melodramatically.
“This,” he said archly, “is obviously something you’re never going to understand.
” With that acid comment, he pivoted and stalked out of the room.
Smyt flopped back onto the bed, draping her arm across her face. “Lords of Chaos, Lords of Light, save me from amateurs who speak a good game but have absolutely no idea what they’re on about.”
18
EXCALIBUR
AS DR. SELAR HEADED OVER toward the exam table where Tsana was lying, she slowed and blinked in disbelief. Standing next to Tsana, once again, was Moke. This time, of course, she was not insensate as she had been before. Indeed, the discussion they were having seemed rather animated. That, however, did not deter the Vulcan doctor from approaching them and—in her most professional mien and sternest manner—saying, “I do not recall giving you permission to come down here, Moke.” “I thought anyone could come to sickbay,” he said a bit defensively.
Selar had had it. She was far too logical to do something as illogical as losing her temper, but nevertheless she pointed one arm stiffly and said, “Wait in my office for me, if you please.”
She expected the boy to protest. Instead he shrugged slightly, nodded to Tsana as if wishing her a good day, and walked quietly over to Selar’s office. Even from where she was standing, she could see him sit carefully on the chair. No slumping, as with other children. And he kept his hands folded neatly on his lap.
“What was he saying to you?” she asked Tsana.
“We were just talking, about families,” she said. She wasn’t looking Selar in the eyes. Since Selar was unaware of any Aeron custom that would have precluded a speaker making eye contact, she had to conclude that Tsana was endeavoring to conceal something.
“Families,” echoed Selar, and then waited for Tsana to continue.
“He said that his mother was dead, and he never knew his father, although he has an adoptive one now. My mother’s dead, too, and I knew my father, but not as well as I would have liked to.”
“Few of us do,” Selar said, and then felt a momentary surprise at herself that she would say such a thing. She shook it off and then asked, “Anything else?”
“Nothing much. Am I done here, Doctor?”
She glanced at the medscan one more time and then nodded curtly. “Yes, you are done here. Thank you for returning to sickbay so that I could monitor your progress. There seem to be no indications of . . . problems.”
“What sort of problems?”
“Any sort of brain pattern disruptions.” She hesitated and then, deciding honesty would be preferable, she said, “The . . . technique I used to bring you to wakefulness . . . and the fact that another of my kind aided me in the endeavor . . . that can be a strain on the untrained mind.”
“Oh,” she said, looking thoughtful.
“But there is no need for concern. You do not seem to have been done any lasting damage.”
“I appreciate that.” Then, to the Vulcan’s surprise, not to mention her stony disapproval, Tsana reached over and threw her arms around Selar in an aggressive, almost needy hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You . . . are welcome,” she said. “Now that is . . . quite enough.” Gently she disengaged the girl. “You may return to the temporary quarters assigned you by the captain. I can assign an escort to guide you if—”
“No, I can get there. It’s just down the hall.” She hopped down off the examining table. “Thanks again.”
“You are welcome. Again.”
She watched Tsana bound out of sickbay, and then became aware that various medtechs were looking at her. They were smiling. It bothered the hell out of Selar, because she didn’t want her people to think for a moment that she was endorsing unprofessional behavior or maudlin bedside manner. So she gave them a look of cold dismissal, and they all immediately found something better to do. Satisfied, Selar went to her office, where Moke was waiting for her. She walked around the desk, sat, and scrutinized him. “Your continued presence here in sickbay is simply unacceptable. If you are not ill, you cannot be here.”
“You’re here,” he pointed out.
“I work here.”
“Can I work here?”
“No. Moke . . . I do not understand this desire of yours to be in my presence.”
He shrugged. “I like you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a mom. You have a son, and he’s strange, and so I thought—”
“Wait, wait,” and she put up a hand. “I have a son . . . and he is ‘strange’?”
“Yes.”
“Who has said that?”
“People.”
“What people?”
“People who were talking about him.” Before Selar could tell him that this was not a tremendously useful answer, he continued, “They say he grows fast, and he’s not like any Vulcan they ever saw, and how difficult it must be to be a parent of a strange child like that. So I was hoping—”
“Xyon is not a ‘strange child,’ ” Selar told him, surprised and annoyed at the vehemence of her own voice. “He is . . . he is . . .” Disliking her tone, as it seemed to border on being flustered, she reined herself in and superimposed, once more, her customary detached demeanor. “He is . . . none of your business, in point of fact. Yes. That is correct. His nature is none of your business, and you would be well-advised to remember that. And you were hoping what? What were you hoping?”
He looked down.
“Moke? What were you hoping?” The question was not asked gently.
He took a deep breath and then let it out unsteadily. “That you could be like a mom to me.”
Selar’s breath caught a moment, but she composed herself before allowing any of her momentary confusion to show. “What?”
He raised his gaze to look into her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, Mac is great . . . and I know that nothing can replace my mom, because she was the best, and I’d never forget her, or anything like that, but I . . . well . . . you see . . .” Then the words came out all in a rush, as if jockeying for position. “It’s just that the people in the town where I lived thought I was strange, and it couldn’t have been easy for my mom raising me, and she was able to handle people, and she never stopped loving me, and I know you don’t know me and I don’t know you, but you’ve got a strange kid, except he’s not strange like me because I kind of blew some people away in the town, but they were bad people and deserved it because they hurt my mom, so I hurt them, and I’m not sorry about that, I don’t think, and anyway she loved me even though I was all of that stuff, weird stuff, so I thought maybe you could love me a little, too, not a lot, not like she did, but just a little so I could remember what it was like and stuff . . .”
He didn’t so much stop as run out of momentum, and once he had, Selar just stared at him for a time and tried to figure out what to say. “I see,” was all she was able to come up with.
“It’s just . . . you remind me of her . . . a little.”
Selar felt as if she were running just to keep up. “Your mother had pointed ears?”
“No, but she could get all firm and stuff . . . and when she did, her voice sounded like yours. And I . . . well . . . they say that when someone’s dead for a while, you forget what they sound like. Forget their voice. And I don’t want to forget her voice. So . . . so that’s why. Please don’t be mad.”
Finally something she could address. “I am . . . not mad, Moke. I am . . .” She didn’t want to say ‘surprised.’ That would not be appropriate. Drawing herself up, she managed to say, “You have given me . . . much to contemplate. I thank you for your candor.”
He frowned. “I didn’t give you a ‘candor.’ ”
“For your honesty. Candor means honesty.”
“Oh. Okay. Mom said honesty was one of the most important things in the world. That if people couldn’t believe what everybody was saying to everybody, how could anybody ever get along?”
“Your mother was very wise.”
“I know. You are, too.”
There was a long silence, and then Selar said softly, “You may leave now, Mo
ke.”
He paused, as if afraid to voice the question. “Can I come down here sometimes?”
“I will . . . discuss the matter with your . . . with Captain Calhoun.”
“All right. Thanks,” he said.
Selar was quiet for a long time after Moke left, her hands steepled in front of her. When Dr. Lili Scasino stuck her head in a few minutes later, Selar had not moved. “ Doctor . . .” she said cautiously.
Selar looked up at her. “My child is not ‘strange.’ ”
Scasino blinked, then said, “Wait’ll he’s a teenager. And you can take that from personal experience.”
Selar shook her head and said, “My pardon. My mind was . . . elsewhere. What do you need?”
“Uhm, Captain Calhoun just called down, wanted to know the results of your exam of Tsana.”
“Tell him she shows no signs of—no. On second thought, I shall speak to him. There are . . . a number of things we need to discuss.”
19
AERON
BECAUSE THERE WERE so many people at the Great Rally . . . a thousand or so, crushed into the courtyard outside the Counselars’ Hall . . . there were naturally many different accounts of why exactly the rally went wrong, and what was the true meaning behind Burkitt’s mental breakdown, and blame was ascribed to everyone and everything. Furthermore, as word of it spread, so many more people claimed to have been there to witness it firsthand that, had they been, the courtyard would have been filled twenty times over. . . .
Gragg bolted down the hall, positive from the screams he was hearing that the Markanians were once again attacking. Perhaps they had somehow discovered that they had missed one of the imperials and—falsely believing Tsana was still in the mansion—were instigating another assault. As he drew nearer, he came to the realization that the screams were coming from the quarters of the warmaster. That, of course, would make perfect sense: Where else would the bastards strike but at one of the most powerful of the planet’s leaders? Obviously, though, the warmaster was putting up one incredible fight, for the shrieks could only be torn from the throats of the cowardly Markanians, as they discovered their intended victim was not going down quietly.